


I'll Ides YOUR March

by thalialunacy



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-29
Updated: 2010-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:31:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Chris wanks to Karl's Xena episodes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Ides YOUR March

**Author's Note:**

> **Summary** : Chris wanks it to _Xena_ on March 15th. No lie.  
>  **Disclaimer** : Obviously fictional content is FICTIONAL. Don't be hatin, we just like the fuckin.  
>  **Notes** : I realize this resembles skyblue_reverie's awesome [_Reach of His Arm_](http://skyblue-reverie.livejournal.com/42788.html) (which is hilar and you should go read it right now) but this [specific prompt](http://withthepilot.livejournal.com/39406.html) came a week or so earlier from withthepilot because of [this post](http://community.livejournal.com/ontd_startrek/1204873.html) by raphaellover. Actual plot bunny from seeingrightly, and one joke contributed unknowingly by clarkoholic. For visual evidence: [Cupid](http://pics.livejournal.com/thalialunacy/pic/002w0hx1), [full battle armor](http://pics.livejournal.com/thalialunacy/pic/002w2xhx), and [in bed](http://pics.livejournal.com/thalialunacy/pic/0030kr25). All relevant tv eps can be found here (f-locked to comm members).

Blame it on the fucking alcohol, okay. Alcohol, sleep deprivation, and possibly some weed mixed in with all that nicotine; his high school friends are nerdy little deviants and every time he accepts a non-descript rolly at a party, he's glad he's no longer in the realm of needing to piss-test for a job.

And by 'party,' he usually—and definitely this time—means gathering of maybe fifteen of them involving too much wine, fancy tobacco, and drunken Monty Python routines.

He'd had a bitch of a shoot that day, then had the next day, the fifteenth of March, off, so it seemed fitting.

It had also seemed fitting—fitting of his status of being a fucking drunk idiot, at least—for him to whip out the Blackberry at approximately 12:03:43am (after his friend with half a history degree and a big fucking mouth had announced the date gleefully) and text one Mr Karl Urban—Caesar Himself—to beware the Ides of March.

Chris was so amused by this idea that he hit the buttons twice. Maybe even three times. There might've even been a _smiley_ involved, although unfortunately it hadn't been the elaborate stabby one he'd tried and failed to come up with, scratching his head and contemplating ASCII and the nature of electronic communication parsing emotions into less-than signs and at symbols.

Then he stood there for a cigarette and a half wondering what time zone Karl was even in. But his mental calendar was soaked in Maker's Mark and he couldn't remember if Karl'd been home or in LA or or Toronto or what—To be honest, he couldn't remember much of anything.

Nor does he remember much of anything the next morning. Which is okay, really; days off are fucking awesome. He gathers up a huge jug of orange juice, a quilt, and a notebook and some reading, then sprawls on the couch, contemplating his agent's last message and his schedule for the next few months. He absently thumbs on whatever's in the DVD player—white noise, white noise and oj is the hangover cure that shouldn't work but does—and is too busy gauging the motion-induced rise in his level of nausea to notice what starts playing.

The nausea rises for a different reason once he figures it out. He puts a hand over his face and stares through his fingers as a supremely young, blonde, and bare-chested _Karl Urban in a kilt_ starts pouting on the screen.

Fuck Zach and his birthday presents, thinking it'd be funny to give Chris a 'Special Mancrush DVD' the August after the Trek press tours—'All of Karl-Heinz's early magnificence on one handy-dandy disk,' he'd said with that fucking gay smirk of his.

If only Zach had known what Chris would do with it.

Well, then again, it's Zach. He probably had.

Chris shakes his head, hesitates, then fastforwards to the one with the full horseback armor at the beginning, just because he can.

Then he remembers the texts—plural—he sent last night. He groans and puts his head back in his hand. He considers pulling out his Blackberry and throwing it against the wall, or perhaps even deleting the evidence, but it's too late now, c'est la vie, etc.

Karl's probably already in tomorrow, anyways.

\---

He spends the next couple hours in a hungover quagmire of script-reading and philosophizing with himself about the contents of the _Times_. His nerves want a cigarette but his stomach protests the very thought, so he lets them jangle. The noise of the tv is ridiculous and comforting and he feels slightly better whenever he hears Karl's awful American accent.

He's about to doze off when he catches the superlatively sexy sounds of Caesar's first scene in the Ides of March episode, and his sleepy brain flies to the bad place. His cock stirs pathetically.

He presses pause and fwumps back into the cushions, one hand half-heartedly pressing down on his crotch. He vacillates, then figures, well, shit, he's already going to hell, and he already feels _like_ hell, so… so what the hell.

He congratulates himself on his witty wordplay, then reaches for both his cock and the remote. Usually he's more subtle—he's a dramatic build-up kind of guy—but hangovers suck and this scene isn't all that long.

Well, it's not all that long unless you press rewind. A few times. Which of course he would never normally do; he's not some teenager with a crush, for fuck's sake. He's a… a grown-up with a man-crush. On a married man who lives across the fucking globe.

He groans and drops the remote altogether, covering his face with his free hand as he fists his now fully-interested cock. Angst gets him hot, apparently. Forbidden-fruit complex in full throttle, etc, but it's the goddamn truth that somehow not knowing what those lips would actually feel like on his cock makes it somehow more of an arousing thought. He's got the guy's sex scenes memorized anyway, and it's beyond easy to just insert himself in there, or, rather, insert _Karl_ into _him_ , imagining _he's_ the one riding a panting, sweating Karl into oblivion--

There's a knock on the door. Chris grunts and jerks and hears the crash of papers falling to the ground as he sits up reflexively.

The knock comes again. Chris rolls his eyes at his dumb fucking luck. It's probably a wrong address or the UPS guy. Sending placating thoughts to his cock, he fumbles at his blanket, wrapping it around himself before wandering to the door. His cheeks are flushed and he knows it but he can just blame it on… something. On being so fucking white. Usually works.

Except that the person at the door is, of course, _Karl Urban_. Chris just stares at him, knows Caesar is saying something behind him while he's staring at the face of the man that played Caesar and he'd laugh but-- "Oh. Fuck. Hi."

Karl raises an eyebrow. "Hi." He glances behind Chris and Chris is superbly thankful you can't actually see the screen from there. "Did I wake you?"

Chris scratches his head. "Yeah. Absolutely."

Karl snorts. "On the couch with the tv on?"

"Is that a sin? It's my day off."

"I know." He glides past Chris into the apartment.

Chris protests. "Wait, I wasn't—"

But he doesn't get a chance to finish because Karl's seen the screen. And that's okay because Chris doesn't have a fucking clue what exactly he wasn't doing, but he's a guilt-talker, and the look on Karl's face—

Wait, the look on Karl's face is amused. Indulgent. He looks from the screen to Chris, then his smile gets a little wider. "I'm not surprised." Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and Stands There, staring at Chris.

Chris twitches under his blanket. "What?"

Karl licks his lips. Chris tries not to stare. "Do you remember what you texted me last night?"

"Yes, thank you," Chris says, a little surly but fuck, he's hard and hungover and in love with a married man and this shit sucks.

"Right, well. Did you check your phone this morning?"

"Yes," Chris lies.

"Really?"

He tugs the blanket around him more tightly. "Yeah, fuck, why?"

"Because if you had, you'd be over here and not over there."

Chris stares, his brow furrowed. "What? Wait."

"That's your cue to go get your phone, yes. Or you could just come over here and look at it on mine." He holds out said phone, but not too far, and Chris crosses to him slowly before grabbing his wrist and turning it so he can see the small screen.

He squints at it. And then his heart stops.

 _From CHRIS PINE (12:03am)  
Hey Urban Cowboy-_

 _From CHRIS PINE (12:03am)  
Beware the Ides of March, please. Don't get stabbed again._

 _From CHRIS PINE (12:04am)  
I need you around to populate my spank bank with impossibilities._

 _From CHRIS PINE (12:06am)  
8===>_

Chris groans and tips his head back, letting go of Karl like he's on fire. His heart is banging in his chest and his head is starting to hurt _worse_. "That was supposed to be a sword." He makes a useless stabby-gesture, then throws his hand up in the air, the other still clutching the blanket to cover himself. "Whatever."

"Valliant effort."

"Thanks." He huffs out whatever's left in his lungs and turns to throw himself back down on the couch.

But Karl stops him. "You didn't look at the rest."

Chris glares balefully at the ceiling. "Oh fuck me, there's more? Great, just great."

Karl sighs, then pulls Chris back over to him and shoves the phone in his line of vision. "Just read, you wanker."

 _To CHRIS PINE (5:29am)  
Who says they're impossible?_

Chris stares at the words until they get fuzzy. Then he meets Karl's eyes and says the first thing that comes to mind. "What the fuck were you doing awake at five-thirty in the morning?"

Karl opens his mouth but Chris shakes his head. "No, wait, slightly more important than that is: What the fuck do you mean, who says they're impossible? _I_ say they're impossible, for fuck's sake, what with the rampant heterosexuality and the _wife_."

He doesn't wait to see Karl's expression, just turns and walks towards the couch, flinging more words out as he goes. "And I don't even fucking know why we're having this ridiculous conversation, so I'd thank you to just turn around and take your ass back out the door so I can finish beating off to one of your most ridiculous characters." He waves a hand at the tv. "And with your resume, that's saying something."

But before he can flop back down, Karl's there. Karl's way too close to him, moving aside his free hand and tugging the blanket out of the other. And then oh God Karl's hand is _on_ his _cock_ and he wants to scream but of course he doesn't—partially because he realizes Karl is talking to him.

"If you'd just asked, Pine…" he starts lowly, so close that Chris can feel the exhalation on his lips. He licks them compulsively, tasting Karl's breath and feeling his dick swell into Karl's hand. Karl makes a noise in his throat and Chris looks at him, really looks at him, and sees the impossible in those wide, warm eyes.

Karl motherfucking Urban wants him.

Chris clutches at him, knowing his face is flushing and his breath is starting to become ragged, but his brain won't shut up. "If I'd asked what? Hey Karl would your wife be mad if I let you fuck me?"

Karl half-smiles. "That would've worked, yeah."

"Oh really?" The skepticism in his tone could punch through a wall, even as his hips push helplessly against Karl.

"Yeah. Because the answer is no."

Chris eyes him, trying to think while his cock is screaming at him to stop asking questions and just jump the guy. "The answer is no."

"Yeah, the answer is no; she and I have a… a different relationship than most people." Chris groans as Karl's hand speeds up a little, and Karl's voice quiets, hits Chris right where it hurts. "Just trust me, Chris. You know me."

"Yeah," Chris manages, because he does, "I do. Fuck, I do oh god please do not stop." And finally, finally he leans in and captures Karl's fucking amazing lips, kissing the big Kiwi for all he's worth, and holy fuck— He'd thought the forbidden fruit would never taste as sweet once granted? He'd been oh so fucking wrong. Karl's tongue feels better than he ever postulated, Karl tastes better than he'd ever imagined, and Chris cannot begin to guess what Karl's cock tastes like.

The idea sets him on fire, and on a course. He pushes Karl's hand gently off him and reaches for Karl's pants. "So you're saying," he mutters into Karl's cheek, into the trail he's burning along Karl's neck, "that I'm perfectly allowed to right now, this minute, right here, get down on the ground and suck you off?"

Karl groans, his hands flexing against where they've settled at Chris's waist, and Chris smiles before tugging at an earlobe with his teeth. "I'll take that as a yes," he says, then drops to his knees.

Karl sucks in a breath as Chris sucks down his cock. He slides up and down a few times, lightly, then lets go with a pop.

"Tease," Karl mutters, and Chris doesn't deny it, just sets to work licking and nibbling and smelling and stroking and feeling every inch he can find. He reaches up and grabs one of Karl's jean-clad buttocks, enjoys the flex he feels Karl execute, and enjoys even more the wobble that he gets when he pulls them down and pushes a finger between the revealed cheeks.

Karl's hands scrabble at his shoulders. "Okay, fuck, I think I should sit—"

Chris kisses a hip, then leans back. "By all means." Karl sits gratefully and Chris immediately hooks him around the knee and pulls him low on the cushions. He wants access to it all; he doesn't do this very often with men so he has a stubborn need to prove his prowess every single time, no exceptions. And, plus, it's _Karl_.

Enough said.

He feels a hand on the side of his head as he takes his time with Karl's cock, surrounding it with his mouth but not sucking yet, just getting used to the feel, getting it good and slick and hard. He slides back up to the tip and licks once, rolling the flavor around on his tongue before swallowing. Fucking tasty, for sure, he thinks before he wraps his lips around it for real.

The hand tightens. He looks up, and Karl's eyes are _huge_ and his lip is red from where he's biting it in an effort to hold back. Chris ain't havin none of that— He reaches up and palms Karl's balls, and yes, finally Karl lets out a curse word and thrusts shallowly into Chris's mouth.

Chris makes an encouraging noise in his throat and pursues this course of action, rolling his palm gently, adding suction with his cheeks. The thrusts increase and Chris's own cock leaps in reaction. He reaches down to placate it with his free hand, and he knows he's not going to take much. So he increases his efforts, listening to Karl's noises and letting Karl's cock push up and down his throat. Karl murmurs warning a few moments later, and Chris resolutely stays where he is, fisting his own cock hard, and when they both come it's like a white washout in Chris's whole body, from top to bottom, and the convulsions rock him to the core.

He swallows all he can and licks Karl clean, though. Then: "Fuck," he wheezes, sitting back and trying to catch his breath.

Karl pulls him up and onto the couch, heedless of the mess, so that they end up in a ridiculous pile. Karl arranges them so Chris is tucked up against him, no elbows in precarious places and nobody falling off the couch.

Chris allows it, and just breathes into his neck for a moment, soaking in the afterglow and the wet kisses Karl is giving his shoulder. "I'm a little offended we didn't do this earlier."

Karl laughs. "Because we're idiots?"

"Speak for yourself."

"Okay. Because you're an idiot?"

Chris leans in and blows a raspberry on the skin he reaches. "Shut the fuck up."

"Hey, I'm not the one that texted Shakespeare and innuendo in the middle of the night."

"Yeah, well, you know… Just… wanted to make sure you kept yourself safe." He tips his head back far enough to toss a nonchalant grin upwards.

Karl doesn't let him off the hook, though. "I'm _also_ not the one who was wanking to ten year old television."

Chris tries not to blush and probably fails. Then he shrugs. "Hey, you showed your _knees_. That's hot."

"Beware the knees of Caesar?"

Chris groans loudly. Then he rolls until he's on top of Karl. "That's it, no more outta you for a while."

He leans down to kiss him, shut him up, but Karl breaks it after a moment. "Or what?"

"Or I'll—" He contemplates his cock but he knows that's not going to happen quite yet. Then he smirks. "I'll make you watch your own greatest hits while I sit next to you and MST3K it."

Karl groans. "And you call _me_ a geek."

Chris raises the eyebrow this time. "Do I even have to mention the things you've done at comicons?"

Karl winces goodnaturedly. "Oh god, no." The he grabs Chris's head and brings their lips together firmly. "And that's enough outta _you_ for a while."

 _  
**FIN**   
_


End file.
